H e liked me.

But then, of course he did. I anticipated his every need, every

discomfort, every desire. I never stopped listening. Never stopped watching. When I danced, I counted every footfall.

Months had passed and my magic remained, for the most part, painfully out of reach. Once, I had easily drawn from its deepest levels, making me a force of nature. Now, ever since the collapse at the Scar, I struggled to even use it at all. But I had learned that I didn’t need it to be the perfect slave. I had gotten so good at being exactly what men wanted me to be.

Lord Farimov smiled at me. It would have been a pleasant smile in any other context. He was not an unattractive man, with grey-streaked, sandy hair and a warm face. Perhaps if I was someone else—a different “someone else” than the someone I pretended to be now—I might have thought he was kind.

But I was not another someone. I was a slave. And Farimov perhaps seemed kind, but it was the sort of kindness that one bestowed upon a sweet dog. Even the kindest people corrected undesirable behavior in dogs. I never needed to be corrected, and that was why his smile was so pleasant as I placed the plate of berries at the table.

“Good, Roza,” he said.

Roza. My name, as it had been for the last two weeks. I gave him a demure nod as I straightened, pushing a sheet of smooth chestnut hair behind my ear. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the movement.

The face that stared back at me was unfamiliar, though if I looked closely, I could find traces of the one I had worn my entire life. No

Fragmented skin, just smooth sandy tan. No silver hair, just deep chestnut. No scars. A slightly wider mouth, narrower nose, softer brow. Me, but… not. The only thing that remained was the eyes. One silver, one green. Eyes, Ishqa had said, were impossible to hide with any illusion, even with the advanced Fey potions he had taken from Ela’Dar.

But no illusion was perfect, and no illusion could last forever. I had been wearing this one for too long. Every time I looked at myself, I half expected to see my own Fragmented skin.

I was supposed to be out of here days ago. But each time the Fey’s visit to their Threllian allies was delayed, I thought to myself, I’ve stayed too long to give up now. I decided that the illusion would just need to hold up a little bit longer.

I had spent weeks here, monitoring the rhythm of the household, waiting for this meeting.

Farimov frowned down at the berries. The feast was something to behold—flowers and fruits and meats and cheeses. Maids flurried about the room, adjusting each detail of the display.

“Do you think that Fey even like fruit?” he mused, to no one in particular. “I heard once that they only eat living flesh. Perhaps I should have gotten something… alive.”

I imagined Ishqa chomping down on live creatures and almost laughed. Ishqa, who barely managed to hide his disgust at the very thought of eating something that had once been moving.

“How could they not be impressed?” I said. “It is magnificent. And so clever, to showcase the best of every region of the Threllian empire. A brilliant idea, and a feast worthy of royalty, my Lord.”

Farimov puffed slightly with pride. He liked that I noticed what he had done with the menu. Impossible not to. “The best of every region of the Threllian empire” really meant “the best of all Threll has stolen from the nations they conquered.” Nyzrenese blood apricots were right there in the middle of the table, next to a vase of Deralin cerulean blue blossoms.

My gaze lingered on the flowers a little too long. An unwelcome image flashed through my mind—Max holding those very flowers as the two of us sat alone at night in the Threllian plains. The night I kissed him for the first time. The night I let myself fall.

And now he was—

“My Lord.” A nervous-looking maid appeared at the door. “The Fey emissaries have arrived.”

I HADN’T SEEN these Fey before. After months of war, one might think that I would have encountered more of them, but the Threllians and their slaves were far more common foes than the Fey. The two women were strangely, ethereally beautiful—as the Fey, I’d learned, usually were. One had dark hair that seemed to flash blue when the light hit it the right way, blunt to her shoulders. The other was taller, with sleek blond hair that reached her waist, sharp cheekbones, and a piercing stare of gold that triggered a wave of recognition.

Sometimes, I almost found it amusing to watch the dynamics between the Threllians and the Fey. The Threllian Lords were just so desperate to be seen as powerful—they loved the fact that the Fey came out of hundreds of years of hiding only to immediately propose an alliance. What was better validation of their egos than a race of near-immortals choosing them as their sole human partners? So foolish. Ishqa had told me plenty about the Fey king and his desire to destroy humanity. Sooner or later, once the Threllians outlived their usefulness to him, they would meet an end, too. But in the meantime, the Threllians would provide the scale and numbers that the Fey lacked, and they would stumble and blush over their Fey allies.

Farimov smiled and began to launch into a flowery greeting, but the blond Fey cut him off.

“This is my second, Nessiath Vareid.” She gestured to her dark-haired companion, then bowed her own head. “I am General Iajqa Sai’Ess. King Caduan has sent us. Forgive us if we have little time for pleasantries.”

Sai’Ess.

I kept my expression very still as I poured iced teas at the table.

No wonder she looked so familiar—she was a relative of Ishqa’s. A sister? A cousin?

Another couple followed them into the room—a tall man with sharp dark eyes and fair hair neatly slicked back, and a petite woman with enormous blue eyes and golden curls who looked like she could be a

porcelain doll. They wore fine silk clothes. All white, of course. One glance told me they were Threllian power.

Farimov’s smile faded, eyes widening.

“Lord and Lady Zorokov. What a… surprise.”

I nearly dropped the pitcher. I was not prepared for the unwelcome deluge of memories.

The smell of rotting flesh. The sight of a box of severed hands at my doorstep. The sound of the death screams the monster bearing it had given me.

to.

The Zorokov family, the monster had whispered, does not like being lied

The Zorokovs had murdered hundreds of slaves. And all because of me. I righted the pitcher quickly, my knuckles so tight around the handle

that they were white. No one noticed my fumble except for Lady Zorokov, whose doe-like stare fell to me.

“Goodness. Are you alright?”

If I didn’t know better, I might mistake that for genuine concern. “Yes, my lady,” I murmured. “My greatest apologies.”

She cocked her head and smiled.

“Oh, look at that. You do have the most beautiful eyes, don’t you?” I lowered my gaze immediately. “Thank you, my lady.”

There were no fewer than eight freshly sharpened dinner knives at the table right now. My fingers itched for them. Seconds, and I could kill them both. I didn’t even need my magic to do it.

“A welcome surprise, of course.” Lord Farimov was in the process of quickly correcting his less-than-overjoyed reaction. “It is always a pleasure to receive a visit from you.”

“A discovery like this deserves to be seen firsthand,” Lord Zorokov said.

Farimov put his shock away for good and grinned. “Wonderful. There is more than enough food! Come, sit, eat, and we shall—”

“We have no time for such comforts, I fear,” Iajqa said. “King Caduan is quite impatient. Given the acceleration of Aran aggression, you must understand that time is of the essence.”

“But what a shame to—”

“Our deepest apologies, Lord Farimov,” the dark-haired Fey—Nessiath

—said, not looking particularly apologetic at all.

Farimov sighed, failing to hide his disappointment. “Very well. Of course I understand.” He gestured to one of the slaves, who crossed the room and returned with a polished mahogany box with a gold latch. It was modestly sized, smaller in length and width than the dinner plate Farimov moved aside to place it on the table. The carvings on its surface had been partially eaten by time, despite its obvious, careful restoration.

Utter silence. The breath seemed to have left everyone in the room at once.

“This is it?” Iajqa said, quietly.

“It is. My collections of artifacts are quite extensive, you see. It took months of searching to locate this. But alas…”

He unclasped the box and opened it.

There, in a bed of black silk, sat a glass orb. Mist swirled within it like storm clouds, subtle and yet eerily unsettling. The hairs stood on the back of my neck, a strange sensation nagging deep inside of me. It was the sort of gut feeling I hadn’t gotten in months—not since my magic eluded me after the Aran war.

“So this is the thing that King Caduan lays so many hopes upon,” Lord Zorokov murmured, transfixed.

Iajqa said nothing. She reached out to touch the orb, and sparks and clouds collected under the glass beneath her fingertips.

I tried not to let my interest show, turning away as I swallowed my uncertainty. This thing did not look like a weapon. A magical curiosity, perhaps, but not a weapon.

The two Fey exchanged an unimpressed glance that seemed to betray the same thought.

“I— I have others, too,” Farimov said, sensing their disappointment. “Many other artifacts. Some of the greatest treasures in all of Threll! Perhaps they, too, are of value to your king?”

And at this moment, I felt a telltale burning at my fingertips.

A pit of dread grew in my stomach. I casually glanced down to see a flicker at the tips of my fingers. Smooth skin and my Fragmented Valtain skin shuddered alternately in and out of view.

Shit. Shit. Not now. It was the worst possible timing for the illusion to start falling away. Hands would be easy enough to hide, but I had maybe half an hour before the disguise disintegrated completely—less than that

before it became obvious that something was not right about my appearance.

I clasped my hands behind my back and donned my most charming voice.

“Lord Farimov owns the rarest collection of artifacts in Threll,” I said. “Many were even recovered from the same tombs as this one.”

Farimov beamed. He was so, so eager to show off his treasure that his pride outweighed any displeasure at a slave speaking out of turn. And just as I knew it would, this statement caught the Feys’ attention.

“Very well,” Iajqa said. “We shall see them.”

“A gift to you,” Farimov said, leading them out the door. “Anything you please.”

The minute the footsteps softened down the hall, I crossed the room and opened the box.

The other slave—Melina, I thought her name was—lurched forward, eyes wide. “But—”

“Sh.” I gave her a look, sharp enough to make her mouth snap closed, and opened the box.

Our spies had heard so many stories about this—this artifact that Caduan Iero, the mad Fey king, was so desperate for. We didn’t know what it was or what it did. Even the Fey’s Threllian allies, it seemed, did not know that. But the fact alone that it was so desperately sought after was enough to make Ishqa adamant that it could not fall into the hands of the Fey or the Threllians.

Whatever it was, we had theorized, I might be able to make use of it, given my connection to the deep magics that Caduan manipulated. A stretch, considering that over these last months I could barely use any magic at all.

And this, selfishly, was my only thought as I looked down at this magical trinket.

I had dreamed of something powerful enough to break down the walls of an ancient prison and tear down one of the greatest militaries in the world. I had dreamed of something powerful enough to bring the one most important person in the universe back to me.

This glass orb did not look like such a thing.

“Roza…” Melina whispered, nervously. I ignored her as I reached out to touch the sphere—

The next thing I knew, my back slammed against the floor. My breath hit me like a stone crashing down on my chest. And my skin was burning, burning, burning, so intensely that I had to bite down hard to keep from letting out a cry.

My skin. My hand.

“Roza!” Melina fell to her knees beside me.

Long seconds, and the pain subsided to a tolerable throb. I forced my eyes open and bit back a gasp.

Gold covered my fingertips, reaching down over my palm in organic shapes that looked like the veins of a leaf. The strokes were slightly raised, and my skin clung to the edges, irritated where the gold met my flesh.

This wasn’t on me. This was in me.

I lifted my eyes to the box on the table. It was now empty. Oh, gods.

I looked at the gold spreading across my palm with renewed horror.

This thing—this was the artifact.

Melina made a strangled sound of panic and suddenly pulled away from

me.

It took me a moment to realize why. I had been so preoccupied with the

gold that I hadn’t realized what it was covering: my skin. My normal,

Fragmented skin. The illusion was gone.

Melina turned to the door, presumably to get help. I moved faster. I leapt to my feet, grabbed her, and pressed my hand to her mouth.

“Don’t move,” I hissed. “I am one of you.”

Her back was against me, my arm firmly around her shoulders to keep her from moving. I could not see her face, but I felt her trembling.

“I am Tisaanah Vytezic,” I whispered. “Do you know that name?” A pause. Then a small nod.

“I need you to tell me how we can get out of here, Melina. Fast.

Quietly.”

She jumped a little. I knew why—the “we.”

That one word made life much more difficult, especially since I barely knew this girl. But I couldn’t leave her alone here to face the consequences of my escape.

Slowly, I removed my hand from her mouth, though I didn’t release her just yet—just in case.

“We can’t,” she whispered. “There’s too many people here now, in the middle of the day.”

“There has to be something.” “Can’t you just… use magic?”

I almost laughed. I knew what she was thinking: This girl has ended wars, and she can’t get herself out of this stupid house?

I spent a lot of time lately thinking about my magic and all the things it couldn’t do.

“No,” I said. “Not here. There are too many wards.”

Farimov’s estate, like those of many of the Threllian Lords, had been protected with many, many Stratagram wards since the beginning of the war

—protection against magic wielding rebel slaves like myself, and against Nura’s armies.

I tried not to think about the fact that if I still had Reshaye, I could tear through those wards easily. If I still harbored a connection to deep magic…

I shook the thought away. Unhelpful.

I reached into my pocket, fingers closing around the gold feather hidden there. Ishqa wasn’t ready for me now. According to the original plan, I was supposed to summon him at night, slipping past the strongest wards, and he would carry me away from the estate. Escaping in broad daylight would be far more challenging.

But he was still our best hope of getting out alive.

I pulled out the feather and held it over the candle flame. Ishqa would sense its call, but I had no clue where he was or if he could even reach us in time.

“The servants’ tunnels,” I asked, “can they lead us out of the house?”

“They’re not really tunnels,” came the reply. “More like a basement. And they don’t extend all the way to the estate walls.”

“They just need to get us outside.”

The feather crumbled to ash, which I quickly swept under the table runner.

I needed a weapon. My eyes landed on a decorative saber mounted on the wall. I grabbed it as quietly as I could. It was ornate, the hilt studded with impractical rubies, and the blade was dull. It was never meant for real fighting, but with enough force, it could still do damage.

“Let’s go.” I was at the door before I realized Melina wasn’t with me. I turned to find her standing still, eyes wide, lips parted but silent.

She looked so completely terrified. I wondered if I’d looked the same when Serel put me on that horse and told me to go find a new life.

I never would have admitted it, but back then, I’d been scared out of my mind to leave behind everything I knew. I coped by obsessing over the future I swore to build. But…

Unbidden, the memory washed over me: the crackle of a fire in the cool night air, the familiar scent of ash and lilac, a small, sarcastic laugh, and a smile that always began on the left side.

Home. I had never thought I would find a home. Even if it had been a temporary one.

My chest ached, and my stance softened. I returned to Melina, taking her hand in a firm, comforting grasp.

“There are lots of people like you,” I said, quietly. “Like us. If we make it out of here today, you’ll be amazed at what freedom can be.”

She gave me a weak smile and swallowed hard. “This way.”